


Smoke: A Crime AU

by TheMoonlitSojourner



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU-gust 2020, AUgust Day 12, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, BAMF Wanda Maximoff, Bullying, Eventual Romance, Experimental, F/M, Gangster!Wanda, Gun Violence, Human Vision (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Simon is basically a demon in this one I'm so sorry Simon fans, Smoking, that last tag happened when I wasn't looking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMoonlitSojourner/pseuds/TheMoonlitSojourner
Summary: Two years. Only two more years until Vision is out of high school and old enough to be on his own. He counts down the days, the minutes until this hell is over and he can get out of this city, away from the gangs, the violence, the fear. The smoke. But as the days pass, he begins to wonder whether he will make it to graduation at all. That's when a strange girl covered in tattoos steps into his life and makes it her mission to get him through. The only question is, can he really trust her?Does he even want to?
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 14
Kudos: 14
Collections: AUgust 2020





	1. Smoke on his skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissObsession](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissObsession/gifts).



> Dedicated to my amazing beta reader and friend, MissObsession! You mentioned looking into AUs, so here's one just for you! After all, there is no way I would be as far as I am now without you and all your support and help.
> 
> Without further ado...

As light filters into the bedroom, so does the clamor of the day. The sound of the couple next door screaming at each other, the tired cry of a baby down the hall, the whine of a distant siren. It skims past Vision’s ears as white noise, a constant buzzing he has long become accustomed to.

He squints at his bare-chested reflection in the full-length mirror, carefully dabbing at the gash on his face in an attempt to clean it up without dislodging the scab. Thankfully, it’s not as deep as the last one, and therefore less noticeable. The black eye, on the other hand… With a sigh, he slips on his glasses and glances at the clock, shifting to find the right angle to see through the shattered glass of its face. If he doesn’t leave now, he might be late for homeroom.

Vision grabs a clean t-shirt, pausing to take a cursory sniff. It smells like smoke. That’s another thing he can hardly pick up on anymore, but he knows it’s true. All his clothes smell like smoke. Honestly, he’s not even sure why he still checks. Pulling on the shirt, he starts to tuck it in before stopping himself, remembering they don’t do that here. Instead, he smooths it against his jeans and gives his hair a quick finger-comb. This will have to be good enough.

He grabs his backpack and tiptoes out of the room, holding his breath as he passes a locked door doing very little to block the raucous snores emanating from behind it. In the kitchen, he snatches an old granola bar off the counter and stuffs it into his mouth on the way out the door. After a quick check of his bike’s tires, he hops on and pushes off, bouncing on the pothole-ridden pavement.

The ride to school is a good twenty minutes through unsavory neighborhoods such as his own, but as long as Vision keeps his eyes straight ahead and pedals quickly, he’s usually able to make it without much trouble. Today, this is only true for the first ten minutes.

He dives off his bike as the first shots explode from the junkyard across the street, one ripping through the barbed wire fence to slam into the brick behind him, just a few feet from his head. He scrambles to his hands and knees and starts crawling toward the corner of the building, hoping to make it to the alley. Answering fire blasts out of the window above his head and he falls, hands clapped over his ringing ears, teeth clenched against the pain of his throbbing head. His breath comes shallow and fast as his chest seizes up, adding a familiar panic to his mounting terror. The world spins around him, and he knows he’s dead. There’s no way out of this, not when he can’t even stand up.

Then someone is grabbing the straps of his backpack, hauling him through the door and out of the line of fire. His head thuds against the wall as he is thrown into an out of the way corner, falling onto his hands and knees as a coughing spell takes over.

“Stay here, you idiot,” his rescuer hisses in a thickly accented voice, her black steel-toe boots already stepping away from him.

Eyes watering, Vision fumbles with the zipper on his backpack, hands shaking uncontrollably. Finding his emergency inhaler, he shoves it into his mouth between coughs, forcing himself to stop and breathe deeply. Gradually, the asthma attack relinquishes its grip on him as his airways open again, allowing in the sweet relief of air, precious despite the definite taste of smoke tainting it.

Vision flops back against the wall as the rest of the cramped room comes back into focus. He is witnessing the other side of the firefight, watching in a daze as three gun-toting gangsters crouch against the opposite wall of the building, periodically popping out of their hiding places to fire round after round of bullets, returning every volley from the junkyard with two of their own. A tense focus grips them as they duck and dodge fluidly, staying as far out of sight as possible, revealing only the dark steel of their guns to the enemy.

Time stands still, and it could easily have been hours or minutes before he realizes the space between shots is lengthening, both sides seeming to slow down. A heavy silence falls on the neighborhood, the kind that thickens the air and stifles Vision’s already aching lungs.

Inside the one-room brick building, the gangsters lean out the windows, scanning the street with guns still poised, fingers still brushing the triggers. Minutes drag by.

“Think they’re gone,” the tall African-American states, though Vision notices his scrutinizing gaze never pauses. A few more seconds pass. The other two look to the redhead still glued to the scope of her rifle.

“Yeah,” she confirms. “They’re gone.”

Only then do they relax, lifting their guns from the windows and setting them aside or holstering them.

“Love a good firefight in the morning!” the tall one quips. The twin glares sent his direction cause him to throw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, too soon.”

The shorter girl, recognizable by her steel-toe boots as the one who yanked Vision out of the street, turns to him and plants her hands on her hips. She tilts her head, slowly looking him up and down. He can’t help but do the same to her.

She has long, dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail, and thick layers of eyeshadow lend an uncanny depth to her green eyes. A black cut-off t-shirt drapes her pale shoulders, drawing attention to the swirling tattoos lining her arms. The outfit is completed by ripped black jeans and a leather jacket tied around her waist. Silver piercings glimmer in the light from the window, a ring in her lip, a couple in each ear. Everything about her screams a single word: tough. Yet she’s short and slight, and Vision realizes she can’t be much older than he is.

“What are you doing here?” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing.

“I-I was just on my way to school.”

The other hoodlums, though they must be in their twenties, are both watching the girl as if waiting for a signal. She sighs. “I guess we’d better take you there. The Zodiac might have left for now, but there’s no sense in risking it.”

Vision blinks at her. “Wait, but I… I thought you were a gang?” Dread grips his stomach at the realization of how dangerous this situation he’s stumbled into is.

She watches him for a moment. “What’s your name?”

“Vision.” Without thinking, he gives her his old nickname, the one he wishes the kids at school would use instead of the slew of mocking alternatives they seem so fond of, and he winces. Great. Now she’s going to think he’s lying.

But she doesn’t bat an eye. “Alright, Vision. Yes, we’re a gang. But trust me: we’re the good guys. C’mon.” She nods toward the door.

Vision stumbles to his feet and follows them. He’s just in time to see the tall guy jog around the corner into the alley, returning behind the wheel of a big, black SUV adorned with a host of mysterious dents. Before he can say a word, the redhead is tossing their weapons and his bike in the trunk, and the girl is opening the door to the back seat, turning to him with raised eyebrows.

“Well? You coming?”

Everything in Vision is screaming not to trust them, to remember what he has always been taught about getting in cars with strangers, let alone strangers with guns. But these strangers also saved his life. Besides, everyone around here knows the rules of the street trump all others. And one of the most important of those rules is to never argue with those who  _ run _ the streets.

Taking a deep breath, he nods and climbs into the vehicle. The girl slams the door behind him, jumps into the passenger seat, and they are off.

Vision sits with his arms and legs as close to him as possible, trying not to look at the redhead in the next seat over. Her icy blue eyes scour the neighborhoods as they pass, watching for any trouble. The driver turns up the radio, enthusiastically belting out the lyrics. The girl remains silent.

“So, um, who are you guys, exactly?” Vision inwardly curses his habit of nervous, stuttering chatter. Normally, it’s annoying. Today, it’ll probably get him killed.

“We’re the brave protectors of these streets and every bad guy’s worst nightmare!” the tall guy pipes up, and the girl smacks his arm.

“What he  _ means _ to say is we’re the Avengers. This idiot here is Sam, that’s Natasha, and I’m Wanda.” She gestures to each person as she explains, movements light and easy, almost flippant in their looseness.

The vehicle jerks to a stop. “This your exit?” Sam asks, twinkling eyes finding Vision’s in the rearview mirror.

“I- Yes.” Vision jumps out the door, foot nearly catching on the curb. By the time he finds his balance again, the door has been pulled shut behind him, his bike deposited on the grass, and the SUV is careening down the road.

For a moment, he watches as it speeds away, feeling like he still hasn’t quite caught his breath. Tearing his eyes away, Vision glances down at his watch. He freezes. Then he sprints across the empty school yard dragging his bike behind him, flinging it to the ground and slamming the front door open, flying down the hallway, shoes slapping against the smooth tile floors, ignoring the laboured wheeze of his breathing as he forces air in and out.

The clang of a bell shatters the still air, and doors all around him burst open, students flooding the halls, laughing and talking with their friends. Vision slows to a walk and stuffs his hands into his pockets, face burning, trying to get his breathing under control without using his inhaler. He bows his head and watches his own footsteps, pushing through the crush of people as he changes course to his first period classroom.

What follows is the same as always. Cram himself into a desk made for someone much shorter. Listen to a lesson that’s all review. Take the long way to the next class to avoid Simon and his cronies. Repeat, and repeat. It is the daily drudge, the time loop he can’t seem to escape from. No one even notices Vision missed homeroom. The memory of that morning is fading, drowned out by the monotony of routine, feeling more and more like a surreal dream than the terrifying near-miss of death it was.

He bikes home on a different route, unwilling to tempt fate, or the gangsters for that matter. Kathy’s car is nowhere to be seen as he rolls up to the porch and locks his bike in place. She’s probably at the pub again.

Vision steps inside and immediately doubles over, choking and coughing on the gray haze filling the room. Pulling his shirt over his face, he shoves open the living room windows one by one, yanking aside the double set of curtains on each. Then he marches over to the ashtray next to the front door and firmly screws the smoldering, smoking cigarette lying there into the powder.

His footsteps pound against the creaking floor, echoing through the thin walls as he storms down the hall. With a violent whirl, he slams the door to his room so hard he hears something crack. Throwing himself on his bed, he bites his tongue and stares at the dark stain on his ceiling. And the words come roaring back, the ones Simon throws at him every time.

_ “No one cares about you. No one at all.” _

Vision bites down so hard he tastes blood. Every time these thoughts resurface he fights them, reminds himself there are over seven billion people in the world, and the probability of not a single one caring about him is nearly impossible. But the kids at school don’t care, not when sticking up for someone means the end of the anonymity keeping them safe. Neither do the teachers, who have it just as bad as everyone else here, struggling just to make it to the next day. And Kathy most certainly doesn’t care. The only thing she cares about is the check they give her every month for fostering him, the one she spends on beer and cigarettes. No one cares.

But a memory flashes through his mind, the sound of gunshots and the scrape of concrete against his arm. The force of someone pulling him to safety, and the sound of a thick accent warning him to stay inside, out of harm’s way. The demand that he be escorted to school rather than risk going alone. The flash of green eyes, the silver of piercings, the ink of tattoos.

As the sun sinks behind the towers of Chicago, the shadows filtering into Vision’s room, it’s obvious to him that the words are wrong. Someone cares. She would never have jumped into the line of fire to save him if she didn’t. Which leaves one all important question: Why?

What could she possibly want from him?


	2. Smoke from within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm builds outside, rain pouring down and staining the whole world the same shade of grey. But it's nothing compared to the storm brewing inside Vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plans for this fic have majorly changed since the first chapter, so I updated the tags and summary. I also added the Graphic Violence warning due to an intense bullying scene in this chapter. It might not be strictly necessary, but I just want to be careful.

Dark clouds loom over the horizon, low and heavy. Humidity thickens the air, where the acrid taste of electricity lingers, the kind that coats the tongue. A brilliant flash of lightning shatters the black sky, and low rumbles roll in the distance, each a little louder than the one before it, the sky’s threat of rain voiced by thunder.

Inside a building as grey as the heavens above, Vision rests his chin in his hands, watching the brewing storm beyond the window. It’s a nasty, dreary day.

“Good morning, students!” A deep, sonorous voice booms and echoes through the school gym, cutting through the pre-assembly chatter and gossip.

It may be nasty outside, but what he wouldn’t give to be out there instead of in here...

“It may not look like a good morning, but trust me it is.” The city’s esteemed, _lauded_ mayor chuckles lightly to himself, shaking his head in exaggerated mirth.

_Two sentences._ All it takes is two sentences for Vision’s teeth to find his tongue and bite down, for his hands to jam into his pockets.

On second thought, anywhere in the _world_ is better than here.

“Any day is a good day where there is light and inspiration to be found, and I couldn’t be prouder of the inspiration right here, at this very school.” Mayor Williams leans against the podium and slowly scans the audience, smoothly making eye contact with individual students, deep brown eyes luring them in, silver tongue darting out to wet his lips as he prepares to paint on the flattery in thick, sugary strokes.

“The other schools in this league have teams with better funding. More fans. Players who have been training since before they could walk!” A strip of pearly white gleams from behind the mayor’s neatly trimmed beard, as he graces them all with a broad, perfectly symmetrical grin, every tooth straight and spotless. It’s a grin he probably spent hundreds on.

“But did you let that stop you?” He turns to the bleacher rows in dead-center crammed full of over a dozen burly football players, but it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that he only sees one. The mayor grips the sides of the podium, raising his voice and the energy of the crowd with it. “Did you let that intimidate you, make you second guess yourselves?”

“No, sir!” the jocks thunder, wide shoulders thrown back, chins lifted in pride at being singled out by the mayor of the entire city, the _hero_ of these trying times. And none of the players is prouder than their king, their _all-mighty_ captain.

Simon Williams reigns over the gym from his plastic bleacher throne, surrounded on every side by teammates, fans, and popular-wannabes, cool and untouchable in his signature red sunglasses. A confident, blindingly white grin just like his father’s spreads across his chiseled face as he pushes away the friendly elbowing and teasing of his best friends, hands up in a show of humility.

Fury hisses through Vision’s chest, hot and expanding like steam, and he jerks his gaze back to the window, letting out a scoffing laugh. _Humility. As if._

“Through all your hard work, your _incredible_ perseverance, you have brought something to this school and to this neighborhood that has been missing for decades: pride. Pride in your community, pride in your team, pride in yourselves!”

_Shut up._ Vision’s teeth clench, then his hands, fists tightening until the nails bite into his palms. His head throbs as the pressure builds, the force of a scream rising in his throat that he can’t unleash, years-old frustration left to fester and burn from the inside out. Every word from that manipulative snake’s mouth fuels the fire, the smoldering flame straining ever higher toward a crescendo, despite his best efforts to hold it in check.

“And special recognition must go to your fearless captain, for leading you this far. For being a sterling example of respect and unity, not only to his teammates on the field, but also to his classmates in the halls.” The grin is still pasted on both their faces, lurid, leering, mocking.

_Shut up, shut up, shut UP._

The mayor quickly lifts a hand and dips his head, chuckling. “I know, I’m a bit biased. But would any of you really disagree?” The crowd echoes his laughter, like puppets jerking on strings.

_Fire._ The anger is fire and smoke, not steam. Fire on his tongue, in his chest, burning a path straight through him. Smoke blurring his sight, his senses, his reason.

Thunderous clapping, cheering, and stomping feet shake the bleachers. “Si-mon, Si-mon, Si-mon!”

_Idiots._ Idiots swept up by the charisma, tickled pink by the flattery, caught in the honeyed words like flies in a trap sweet with death. _Idiots._

The mayor shouts out above the noise, beaming at his beloved, _perfect_ son. “I think I speak for the entire administration when I say that we are so very proud of the example this whole team is setting for your fellow students.” He lifts his hands in the air, like a priest blessing his flock. “Now let’s go out and do more! Let’s show this city who the students of Jenson High really are: winners!”

The roar of the crowd fades in and out, muffled by the ringing in Vision’s ears, the pounding in his skull. Students flood the bleachers around Simon, congratulating the champion, the hero of the school, the jock and honor student all rolled into one. The _savior_ who will lift them out of the mud and muck of their own mediocrity.

Would the mayor be so _proud_ if he knew? Would any of them? Would they change their minds?

The way that Simon has his father and this school wrapped around his finger, the way the mayor has the city wrapped around _his…_ No. No, they wouldn’t.

But the whispers he’s heard say it was never like this before. The school team lost every game, never even made it _close_ to the playoffs. And everyone in this city knew that Jenson High was where the kids from bad neighborhoods and worse families went, those who were destined to fall through the cracks of the system one way or another. They were the bottom of the league and bottom of the food chain. It was just how it was. A fact of life.

But now they have their _hero,_ the savior of the school, adopted by the rich, _gracious_ mayor, who sends Simon here just to show he’s a man of the people, someone who cares about even the peasants of his city. And now everything is just peachy! The mayor has saved the city and Simon is saving the school! Never mind the fact that nothing has really changed in either, that Jenson is still the home of delinquents and drug dealers, still the waste bin of the city’s youth. Never mind all that’s happened is they painted a nice, clean white coat of paint over the crypts hiding the mold and disease. Never mind that it’s only a matter of time before the skeletons tumble out and into the light of day.

And _Simon._ Everyone just _knows_ Simon’s destined for a bright future. Plans are in place now, _two years_ before his graduation, for him to attend a prestigious medical school after he earns his bachelor’s. _Medical school._ Vision can’t decide whether to laugh or cry at the cruel irony.

Shouldering his backpack, Vision slips out of the gym before Simon or one of his buddies can spot him. He shoves through the students clogging the bleacher stairs, only to find the hallway is no better. He fixes his jaw and keeps moving, the fire leaping and crackling in his chest at the asinine chatter in their little groups.

“Can you believe the mayor came _here_ ? To _our_ school?”

“Dude, we’re gonna be famous! I swear, the camera was pointed right at us for a moment!”

“Simon really is a nice guy! We’re lucky to have him.”

_Fooled. They’ve got everyone fooled._

The day drags on and talk turns to other topics, and the fire within him falls to a simmer. But an itch still remains. All he does, all day, is what he always does. Travel the halls, eyes straight ahead to avoid awkward eye contact with whoever’s walking the opposite direction. Pass the same people over and over, day after day, wondering at their blank expressions, wondering if they even recognize him. Wondering if he’s living life invisible.

It’s all the same as yesterday was. The same as tomorrow will be. _Trapped. Caged._

_Anywhere but here._ He burns to be out on the streets, hunting for the answer to what happened yesterday. The answer to the question that kept him up last night, the question that won’t leave him alone. But the dawn hours spent roaming the streets, scouring every block for any sign of the Avengers, were wasted. Nothing. Not a trace of suspicious activity, not even a drug runner. He arrived at school just as clueless as the night before, plagued by a dark cloud of frustration. He needs to know their motivation, needs to know their angle. Needs to know _why_.

But that’s not the itch, not the reason it feels like his skin is tightening in on him every day, not the reason he feels like he’s drowning, suffocating, dying a slow death every second. Because what he needs, more than anything else, is _out._

_Two more years. Just two more years,_ he promises the gaping hole in his heart, the one that rips open a little wider every time he thinks someone smiles in his direction only to high-five the person behind him. The one that darkens every time a group of childhood friends wanders past, elbowing each other, laughing, joking. The one that cuts through piece after piece of his being as the realization that something must be deeply, desperately wrong with him is hammered farther into his soul with every passing day.

_Only two more years._

The last bell finally rings, ushering in the echoing slam of locker doors, a clamoring cycle of colliding metal. Vision weaves through the crowd, every sense heightened and locked onto his surroundings, eyes darting across the faces flooding past. His locker should be avoided at all costs, but he doesn’t have a choice. No way is he getting less than an A just because he was too afraid to grab his history papers.

One final check, then the dash across the hall. Spin the lock and yank the door open, duck behind it to hide his face. If he had a bottom locker he’d be nearly invisible in the sea of people right now, rather than struggling to hide his lanky six-foot-plus frame behind a two foot door and hoping for a miracle.

He rifles through the long-abandoned material in his locker, heart pounding in his temples. _Come on, they have to be in here somewhere._

A starburst of pain explodes across his skull and Vision stumbles back, flinching out of the way just before a second blow thrusts his locker door shut with a bang like a gunshot.

“Sorry dude!” Alex leans against the next locker over, a big, dumb smile on his pasty, freckled face. “Just trying to get to my locker!”

Simon tilts his head back and laughs, bellowing, “You idiot, it’s two doors down on the other side!”

Impossibly, Alex’s grin widens and he slaps his forehead as Cory, tormentor number three, cracks up in the background. “Bro, you’re totally right!”

Anger spears through Vision like daggers, short, hot, sharper than the throbbing at the back of his head. Every time. They do this every _bloody_ time.

Simon is still laughing like a hyena. Movement blurs at his side, and Vision stumbles back as Simon’s coffee cup falls from his hand, steaming hot liquid splattering to the tile where Vision’s shoes were a moment ago.

Wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, Simon shakes his head. “Clumsy me! I guess we’re all feeling a bit off today. It’s good to see you again, though.” A thick, muscular arm reaches across Vision’s shoulders, locking him to Simon’s side as he starts down the hallway, dragging Vision along. Alex and Cory dutifully fall into step behind.

“We missed you yesterday,” Simon continues in a light, jovial tone, nodding to a cheerleader as she walks past. “But don’t worry. The boys and I have a good half an hour before practice starts.” A smile slowly creeps across his face, one that doesn’t quite reach his deep set eyes. “And you’ve got an appointment with Dr. Williams.”

Each hall they pass has fewer people, fewer students to smile and wave at the football stars and their “buddy” as they strut past. Each door takes them deeper into the basement. Each step of this prison march takes them closer, closer to the Room. Vision never would have thought an old abandoned classroom could fill him with so much hate and dread.

His head hits a wall for the second time that week as Cory pins him against the chalkboard. “Let’s see what she did to ya this time.” Out comes the penlight, blinding and far more painful than something so small has any right to be. Cory whistles low and long. “Look at that shiner!”

Alex leans in, his grin hovering over Cory’s shoulder, leering from the darkness. “And that slice! Damn, she does good. You tell her she’s got some admirers of her handiwork!”

A loud clap breaks their huddle apart. “Alright buddy, shirt off!” Simon announces with glee, the eerie, too-wide smile still stretched across his face. Something manic and hungry leaps behind his dark eyes.

Heat surges up Vision’s neck, panic shoots down his spine. “That- that’s really not necessary.” He hears his own shallow breath in his ears, too loud, too rapid.

Simon sadly shakes his head. “ ‘Fraid so. We have to check you for other injuries. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on any _treatment_ , now would we? Cory, Alex: could you give me a hand?”

Cory wraps his meaty arms around Vision’s waist from behind and pushes his chest into Vision’s back, forcing him to bend over. Holding the penlight in his mouth, Alex crouches below and latches on to Vision’s wrists, yanking down to lock them in place. And like a ghoul out of the graveyard, Simon steps into the light.

He mimes snapping gloves onto each hand, then rubs them together. “Good evening, sir. We’ll begin the procedure right away.”

Cold hands brush against Vision’s back, sliding his shirt up as he squirms and strains against the grips of steel holding him in place, the tight muscular arms squeezing the air out of his lungs. Everything happens in slow motion, everything is happening all at once, as the cold slithers steadily, inevitably up his neck.

With a smooth motion, Simon pulls the threadbare shirt onto Vision’s wrists, letting it settle over Alex’s hands. “There we go. Now let’s take a look…”

Cory leans back, yanking Vision upright and allowing Simon a clear view. Vision can’t stop the shudder that rolls over him.

The captain cocks his hip and places a hand on his chin. “Hm… Not seeing too much. Not even a nice bruise.”

Alex cracks up, shoulders bouncing in laughter. “What, she been slackin’? I’m disappointed in her! I thought we had a good deal going.”

“Come now Mr. Sanderson, let’s keep this professional,” Simon scolds, shooting Alex a look. Then his black eyes fall on Vision. The dank basement air drifts over Vision’s bare chest. His hands begin to shake. “After all, we have a difficult operation in front of us. The goal,” Simon states, pacing back and forth, “is to leave our mark. Without,” he halts in front of Vision, index finger pointed at his chest and steadily inching closer, ever closer, “actually leaving a mark,” he finishes, making contact, digging his nail in.

The trembling has crept up Vision’s arms, worked its way to his shoulders.

Simon’s eyebrows lower and the side of his mouth twists upward. He leans in, tilting his head, lips brushing against Vision’s ear. “Your mama does that for us, now doesn’t she?” he breathes, chuckling.

_Do something, do something, stop it, stop it._ The mantra races through his head, a frantic, pleading voice trapped in an eternal loop, trapped, trapped like him.

Ice cold hands seize his shoulders, thrusting him down into the rising knee crashing into his stomach. Vision chokes, mouth gaping, gasping for air.

“One!” Alex gleefully counts.

Cory laughs and tightens his grip when Vision’s shoulders hit his, shoved back by Simon. His deep belly laugh continues into the next thrust.

Impact. No air. Head throbbing, arms and legs shaking, gasping. Always gasping.

“Two!”

Vision’s eyes close and the world drops away from him, muted, the feeling of Simon pushing his shoulders back distant, far away, in another place and time. Then he is falling forward, sound, feeling, time roaring back into focus as the knee rockets toward him.

Contact. Radiating pain. _Crack._

His mouth falls open and his chest spasms, heaving, as he tries to cry, to gasp, anything, but nothing can come out, there is nothing left in him. And there is no one holding him up.

Down, down he crashes, shoulder hits the floor, head next, pain, pain everywhere, there is nothing but pain.

“Three,” comes the whisper from above, from the mouth of the devil himself.

Vision wheezes but nothing comes. No air, only pain, he is breathing in pain, choking on it, drowning in it.

The devil’s voice turns sickly, sugary sweet, mock concern coating and poisoning every edge of it. “Oh, that’s right, don’t you have asthma?” A laugh. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Then louder, booming, “Boys, our work here is done!”

Laughter bounces off the concrete walls, rapidly fading behind the gasping, heaving fight to breathe. And the last thing Vision hears is the devil chuckle, “I might have gotten a little carried away.”

His body shakes, everything shakes, the whole world is trembling and crumbling before him and he can’t _breathe,_ he just needs a _breath,_ not the lightning shooting through his stomach, not the vise grip around his chest.

Suffocating, he is suffocating here on the floor, he needs to get up, get up or die. Hands scrabble on the bone-smooth floor, elbows nearly slipping out from under him, shoving to hands and knees, limbs quivering, shaking, _don’t give out, don’t give out._

Another gasp, but this time, this time air, life, oxygen, fresh, sweet. Only a little, need more, more.

Each heaving breath hurts all over, each sobbing gasp sending hot tears rolling down his cheeks, dripping down his nose to the cold floor below.

A low, strangled sob escapes, a quavering, pathetic sound. _Weak,_ his demons whisper. _You are weak,_ they hiss.

_His_ face flashes through Vision’s mind, the reason for this pain, this _hell,_ the reason for every _bloody_ day of fear and shame and hatred.

Red flashes before his eyes and something boils inside him, something clawing its way out.

His chest tightens as red hot lava pours through his being, as the beast in his chest roars, raging, devouring. Fire shoots through his nerves as his fingers clench the tile, nails catching, tearing on the jagged cracks. His mouth rips open, and he screams, screams out the years of torture, the years of shame and agony and fear, of being worthless, nothing, less than nothing. The pain screams with him, agony in his stomach, like the inside of him is bleeding, bleeding out. Breathing hurts and this hurts so much more but it has to come out, he can’t hold it in anymore, not a second longer. He screams his throat raw, screams until his head throbs and snot and tears slide down his face to the broken tile below. He screams until he can’t.

His head hangs as he gasps for breath. His inhaler is upstairs, tucked in his backpack an entire flight away. His hands grasp for something to hold onto. Nothing. There is nothing to pull himself up with. He’s on his own. Alone. Another tear drips from his cheek, falling to the pool between his braced hands.

He’s always been alone.

An eternity passes before he can move. Before he can breathe. He inhales as deeply as possible, a dry sob escaping at the pain. He pushes to his feet, catching himself on the wall when he nearly falls. Another deep inhale. Another whimper. He finds his shirt, tugging the stained, ripped garment on, hands automatically reaching to smooth it. And one cautious step at a time, he leaves.

The squeak of his shoes is the only sound in the barren, abandoned hallways above, echoing off the grey walls, bouncing off ears that only hear the throbbing in his head. Grab the backpack, get out.

Gone. No backpack. Just get out, get out.

More grey. The clouds are grey, the grass is grey. Grey rain pours down in sheets, washing the colour out of the world. Everything is grey.

His bike. At least his bike is still there, still locked where he left it.

Fumbling hands struggle with the lock, numb, bleeding fingers slipping on the wet metal. There. Got it.

Swing his leg over. Push off. Pedal. Pedal. Pedal.

The wind howls around him, icy rain biting at his face, a wall fighting to push him back. _Boom._ Thunder on the horizon, the sound deep and dark, a threat: _turn back._ _Boom._

Lightning streaks the sky, shocking, blinding white.

Keep going. Keep pedaling. One foot, then the other.

Already he is soaked, shirt pasted to his skin, shivering in the whipping wind, bike crawling, no match for the fury of the elements. He’ll have to walk.

Heat rushes from his chest to his face, rising from the hot anger collecting, boiling in his heart. No. No, he will not be the victim again, not to a stupid storm, not even to Mother Nature herself. _Never._ He clenches his teeth and rises to stand on the pedals, arching his back to stay low over the bike, forcing his muscles to pump harder every time. Fighting, wrestling, defying the elements, defying the pain in his stomach and chest, defy, defy.

Already his legs ache as they strain to shove back against the storm, begging him to stop this mad stunt. The wind lashes at his face, water stinging in a flurry of tiny spears, but he puts his head down and pushes, pumping with all his might on every cycle, building speed, building the whining buzz of rubber against the doused pavement.

The wind wails in fury, the sky pouring sheet after sheet upon him as he rockets through a dip in the road, down and back up, teeth clenching, tires sliding in the water, but he makes it, and the other side turns into a hill. Down, down, faster, faster, speed doubling, quadrupling. He tilts his head back and shouts his triumph into the storm, his victory over nature and its fury by becoming this being of pure speed and aerodynamics, he and his machine in perfect sync. He is force, momentum, strength, stoppable by neither wind nor water. And for once in his life...

He. Wins.

With a wet squeak his shoe slips off the pedal and his head flies forward, both feet coming untethered, in the air as his bike swerves, body flipping, falling, hands coming off the bars, and-

_Splash!_

Pain. There is only pain, and exhaustion, and water. He closes his eyes and curls into himself as the grey rushes around him, washes over him, wipes him away, rinses out his colors until he’s just as grey as everything else. Enough. He’s had enough. He’s finished trying to fool himself.

Tears seep down his face, melding with the rain rushing past. He shakes his head, feeling the rough asphalt scraping his cheek, and swallows. “I’m done,” he whispers to no one. “I’m done.”

And he is still.

When he hears the whir of an engine and the slosh of tires sliding through water, he doesn’t try to get up.

* * *

Rain courses down the black leather of Wanda’s jacket, trickling into the gap between her sleeves and gloved hands. A light twist of the throttle sends her motorcycle rocketing across the intersection, and she quickly lets up, allowing the vehicle to coast for the next few yards. Every inch of her is focused on keeping the delicate balance between control, and progress against the whipping, screaming wind. The engine whines loudly, protesting the slow, jerky pace through the ocean surrounding them, and Wanda can’t help but agree. No one should be out in this storm, but she doesn’t have a choice. She’ll do whatever she has to.

She leans into the next turn, hyper aware of every muscle and movement, knowing it wouldn’t take much to slip and topple into the river rushing below. Once around the bend, Wanda straightens and shifts her gaze, squinting past the raindrops on her helmet visor, scanning the street for a boy and a bicycle. Nothing.

He has to be close. She saw him traveling in this direction, and with a headwind like the one trying to shove her off her motorcycle, he can’t be much farther.

Another cautious twist, and the motorcycle jumps forward, surging up a rise in the road. It coasts down the other side, splashes through the puddle filling the dip, and with another nudge climbs up and over the next hill.

Wanda’s eyes widen and she slams on the brakes, tires squealing and skidding, momentum and water dragging her halfway down the slope, her boots shooting to the ground to steady herself as gravity almost takes over. But her near wipe-out is the last thing on her mind. Because lying in the trench at the bottom, where the rain cascading down the hill collects, is a crumpled, dirt-smeared boy, curled on his side and facing away from her, unmoving as the murky water swirls around him. A familiar red bicycle lies a few yards away.

Her heart stops. No, it’s pounding in her ears, booming as the panic rises, the memories. _Stop it. You don’t know yet, just stop._ Forcing herself to exhale, Wanda releases the brake, allowing the motorcycle to roll down the rest of the hill. She’s leaping off the vehicle before it’s fully stopped, crouching next to Vision. Shaky fingers press against his neck, and never has such a simple sensation as the throbbing pulse beneath her touch made her so relieved. Never has she been so glad to be wrong.

Wanda works her arms under Vision’s, maneuvering so that she’s behind him. His head lolls to the side, his muscles limp and heavy. Her teeth clench as she sets her feet, fighting to lift him, and he stirs, grimacing.

“Come on, you have to give me a hand here,” she groans, inwardly cursing her small stature. Vision squirms, shoes slipping against the wet pavement, struggling to get his feet under him. Somehow, they stand. His arm feels like lead across Wanda’s shoulders as she leads him out of the rain, and his head hangs like every ounce of strength has left him. She lowers him to drier ground beneath the jutting roof of an abandoned store, setting him on the cracked concrete as gently as possible.

Wanda turns and jogs back into the rain, straddles her motorcycle, and walks it under the shelter, a little ways from Vision. Her eyes drift to him as she pulls off her helmet, and an ache fills her heart at the sight of his violently shivering form. He hugs his knees to his chest, water dripping from every inch of him, shaking uncontrollably in the bone-chilling cold as he stares blankly into the rain.

Wanda fingers the lid of her bike’s storage compartment, and bites her lip, mentally measuring how filthy Vision is, counting every muddy streak on his once light-colored shirt. With a resigned sigh, she flips the seat back, pulling out a soft, thick fleece jacket. _This is more important_ , she promises herself. She can’t let him freeze.

Without looking in his direction for fear it will change her mind, she shoves the jacket toward him. “Here.”

A moment passes. The rain bounces off the roof above them in a steady thrumming rhythm, a sound Wanda used to lie awake and listen to for hours in the dead of night. It almost sounds like a heartbeat.

Nothing has happened. She looks over her shoulder.

Vision is still staring out into the downpour, face a mask of stone, arms tightly crossed against his trembling body. Slowly, his chest rises and falls with a shaky breath, one that lengthens into a sigh. His quivering lips part in a raspy whisper.

“Why?” He tilts his head back, resting it against the wall as he stares up at her, the shadows drowning his eyes in black. There’s not a single hint of blue. “W-why do you care?”

With just a few words the scars on her heart are torn open and bleeding, the stitches cut loose by the hollowness in his voice, the defeat in every weary muscle of his body. The blackness of his eyes. And she curses herself for how long she waited.

Crouching next to him, she holds out the jacket again. “We take care of our own,” she says softly.

His bleak expression doesn’t change. “Your own?” His voice is flat. Empty.

She shrugs, feeling his eyes follow the motion. “The people of our neighborhoods. The ones we’ve vowed to protect. I told you: we’re the good guys.”

His brows furrow. “So I’m one of your own.” There is an edge to his words, and his voice rises. “J-just because I live on that block.” He is a wire stretched too tight, ready to snap. What has been bottled deep inside for so many years won’t stay there any longer.

Words tangle and tie in Wanda’s head, the lie she should give wrestling with the truth she can’t, and not a single syllable of either is loose enough to yank from the knot. But Vision finds an answer anyway.

“N-no, NO,” he shakes his head, breath coming fast and shallow, fists gripping the fabric of his sleeves. “Th-that’s not it, that’s not _enough_ , that c-can’t be it.” His face twists with the choked words, hurt, angry. “Y-you found me. H-how did you find me?” he demands.

Her stomach churns and her head spins. This is wrong, she’s doing it all wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. “You were looking for us this morning. I… I wanted to see why.” _Coward._ It is a coward’s answer.

There is need in his eyes, a wildness, a pain. “Y-you waited for me outside the school. Out in the r-rain.” He says it like an accusation.

She takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Th-there’s more. There has to be more, no one j-just DOES that.” His shoulders fall, and the mask crumbles from his face. The anger is stripped away, leaving only desperation. “Y-you _know_ me,” he sobs. “You h-have to know me, from one of the orphanages, or- or something. It c-can’t be _random_.”

The ache in her chest deepens, fatigue creeping through her muscles, and she closes her eyes. “I never met you before yesterday,” she whispers. And it’s the truth. As much of it as she can manage right now. She forces herself to open her eyes, to face the despair in his. “Please.” She holds the jacket out one last time. “Take it.”

He stares right through her. “Nothing,” he gasps, and the floor drops out from under her. His head falls to his knees as he pulls them closer, folding into himself, rocking back and forth, whimpering, “It all means nothing, I’m nothing, nothing, nothing…”

The memories flash through her mind and she can’t breathe. A dark room. A white note. A bloodstain dripping down the wall. Guilt, grief. Failure.

Panic spikes through her, sharp, hot, screaming. _No, no, no…_ She can’t do this, she’s made it worse, crushed his spirit, brought him to the very edge. Done exactly what she’d always feared and proved her every excuse and hesitation along the way.

_Give up, give up,_ whisper her doubt, her pain, her past. But that’s not an option. It never has been.

_Fix it,_ she urges herself instead. _Do something._

Tentatively, Wanda lifts her hand. It hovers in the space between them, wavering, uncertain. She bites her lip, then reaches out, fingertips brushing his shoulder. “Vision…”

He flings his arm out, shoving hers away. “Don’t t-touch me. I mean _nothing_ to you,” he spits, but his teeth chatter uncontrollably and his whole body shudders. And she prays it’s just the lighting that makes his skin look blue.

“Listen to me.” She leans forward, her eyes pleading, but he refuses to look. “We can’t stay out here. I’m taking you to base, where it’s warm.”

Lightning explodes across the sky, and Vision leaps to his feet. “NO, I am _not_ g-going with you! I’m not f-following you to your _gang.”_

Another flash of lightning outlines him from behind, and for a moment the lurid light exposes everything. His hunched shoulders, his clenched fists and jaw; the pain of his past is reflected in every rigid muscle. Anger, neglect, and betrayal. Frustration, shame, helplessness. It’s all there. It’s written into his silhouette.

“I don’t know w-what you _want,”_ Vision lifts his chin, _“_ b-but I’m _not_ doing it.”

The thunder rolls above them, and he turns and marches into the storm, stumbling against the wind, head bowed by the driving rain.

“Vision!” Wanda stuffs the jacket back under the motorcycle seat and charges into the downpour. “Vision, we don’t want anything! We’re just trying to help!” She shoves the hair already plastered against her face, squinting past the wall of rain. “ _I_ just want to help!”

Vision’s only response is pushing further, harder. He marches on, stubbornly keeping his back to her.

Wanda closes her eyes as the memories flood her mind, the images she can’t forget, the ones that haunt her dreams night after night. And suddenly she doesn’t care what she says, if she confesses it all, because she will do anything not to lose him.

“I can’t let you be alone anymore!” she shouts, and the last stitches tear and her heart is ripped open, laid bare and shivering out in the icy rain.

But it is worth it because he stops. Finally he stops, frozen in place as the pouring rain spatters off his clothing. “I-I’m going home,” he calls out into the wind, still shivering, still not turning around. “K-Kathy would be there. I-” His voice catches. “I wouldn’t be…”

Wanda inches forward, heart pounding in her throat with each step, each step that brings her closer to bridging the miles between her world and his. “Vision.” Her voice is quieter this time, just barely audible above the rain. “Look at me. Please.”

He stands unmoving, head bowed, the wind whipping at his clothes. Then slowly, stiffly, he turns, fists still clenched, eyes still on the ground. He blinks. He looks up.

And for a moment Wanda can only stare at this boy in front of her, at how drenched to the skin he is, how violently he’s shivering, at the ripped shirt hanging off his too-thin shoulders and the black eye and the gash on his face. Another image flashes through her mind, but this one is of him lying in the street, limp, lifeless, hopeless.

“I can’t let you be alone anymore.” They are the same words but they are different this time, thicker as they roll off her tongue, deepened by the accent that returns in full force during moments like these. Moments when she is afraid. Moments when the memories rush in.

“It’s not right,” she manages, swallowing against the lump in her throat. Her voice drops to a whisper. “It’s not right.” When she looks back up at him his lips are parted, his eyebrows lifted. It is the openest expression she has ever seen on him. “Please come with me. I need-” She stops, catching her breath. Catching herself. “Please,” she finishes simply.

That’s it. That’s all she has.

The rain pours, running down their clothing in rivers. It is a steady pattering on the ground and on the crumbling brick of the buildings around them, like a thousand heartbeats echoing into eternity.

But as they stare across the distance at each other, all they hear is their own hearts pounding in their ears.

Vision tears his eyes away, dipping his head, letting the rain stream through his hair and down his neck. He nods once. “Okay,” he says, voice cracking. He lifts his head, blond hair falling in front of his eyes. “Okay.”

Wanda exhales, eyes briefly closing. Moving cautiously, like he’s a deer she might startle, she steps forward and holds her hand out.

His gaze flicks from her outstretched palm to her face, then back again. He hesitates. Then he takes it.

As she leads him back to the overhang, his cold, clammy hand wrapped tightly in hers, Wanda realizes the wind has died down. Just a little bit.

Vision nearly collapses against the wall, sinking to the cement. Whatever possessed him, whatever drove him out into the storm, is gone. Wanda kneels beside him, offering the jacket. He struggles into it, his head hanging in exhaustion, and urgency rises in her chest.

The jacket fits him far better than it does her, the sleeves ending at his wrists rather than hanging off his hands. His fingers shudder as he fumbles with the zipper, frozen, clumsy, slipping, and his face contorts in frustration.

So Wanda leans forward, brushing his fingers out of the way as she finds the ends of the jacket and gently fits them together. His hands pull back, hovering in place inches from hers, and she feels his gaze upon her. When the zipper reaches the top, her eyes flick to his, and they catch.

Lightning flashes behind her, illuminating the entire sky in one burst. And during that brief second, from this angle, from this close, bathed in the white-hot glow of pure energy and electricity, she could see every shade of blue in his eyes, every emotion flaring as vividly as the lightning splitting the sky. Confusion. Uncertainty. Fear.

Before she quite knows what she’s doing, her fingers brush his temple, sweeping the hair out of those beautiful, expressive eyes. They widen, and something new filters in.

Wonder.

The lightning fades, and darkness falls around them once more. Wanda quickly pulls her hand back and pushes to her feet, crossing over to the motorcycle.

The darkness must be more complete than she thinks, because Vision doesn’t seem to see the helmet until she slides it onto his head.

His hands fly up, scraping at the rim in blind panic, his reaction immediate and full-blown, like an overwrought nerve that keeps getting pinched in the same place.

“I-I’ve never ridden one before! I can’t!” His frantic, muffled voice seeps out from inside the helmet as his stiff fingers shove at the edges, trying to yank it off.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” she soothes, catching his hands in hers.

He freezes, staring at her through the visor like a deer in the headlights.

She gently squeezes his hands, hoping to channel both comfort and some body heat. “We don’t have another choice.” She tries to keep her voice calm and level. “It’s too far to walk in this weather, even if we were going to your place. I’ll drive very slow, I promise. You’ll be okay.”

A deep breath lifts his chest, then lets it drop. “H-how do you get on?”

She smiles. “Just swing your left leg over. I’ll help.” After some careful maneuvering and a close call, they are both seated on the damp leather saddle, Vision’s arms lying so loosely around her waist that she barely feels them. The second the engine roars to life, however, his grip gets much tighter.

The short journey seems to take hours, as the sky dumps every ounce of water it can find on them and water rushes through the streets like rivers through the jungle. Light has long faded from the horizon, leaving their surroundings as drenched in black as they are rain. The streetlights and the lamps on the buildings around them valiantly push against the darkness, but the downpour blurs them into a dizzying haze. A single headlight is their only true guide.

With every bump and divot in the road Vision grips Wanda tighter, holding on like she is his only anchor in a raging sea. The reality isn’t much different.

She feels the forehead of his helmet press between her shoulders and tries not to picture the fear that must be written all over his face. “We’re almost there!” she shouts above the howling wind, fighting to hide the shivering setting into her bones.

The relief that rushes over Wanda when they finally pull into the old lot is so strong it’s physical, dizzying. She stumbles off the motorcycle and turns to help Vision, and together they duck through the doorway, finally out of the storm.

“Wanda!” Sam exclaims, shoulders visibly lifting as the worry rolls off them. “Steve’s out looking for you! There’s a-” He stops short, face stiffening into a cautious mask as he realizes who she brought home, concern bleeding into his voice. “Wanda, we talked about this…”

“Call Steve and get him back here,” she replies shortly, feeling Vision sagging against her side. He’s fading fast. There will be time for the inevitable argument later.

Down the hall, a left turn, down another hall. There.

She lets out a sigh as she lowers Vision into a chair. When she reaches to remove his helmet, he starts, as if he forgot it was even there. Once it’s off, his head starts to loll forward.

“Hey.” She cups his chin in her hand, and after a moment his eyes manage to focus on hers. “I’ll be right back with dry clothes and extra blankets. Okay?”

He blinks and nods.

As quickly as possible, she raids Sam’s pajama drawer, grabs their thickest blankets from the supply closet, and rushes back. Vision sits curled up in the chair, tucked in a tight ball, his arms crossed over his stomach. He lifts his head when she enters, and her breath comes easier after she sees his eyes are clearer, more lucid.

She tosses the fleece pajamas and blankets on the bed. “I think that should be enough.” Her gaze flicks from the clothing to his still shuddering form. “Do you… do you need help?”

Color rushes back into his pale skin. “N-no!”

Heat floods her own cheeks. “I-I just meant if you felt weak, then I could call Sam, and- You got it, though? You’re sure?”

Vision shoves against the arms of the chair, wincing, but he somehow gets to his feet. “I-I’m sure.”

“Okay.” She nods. “Okay. If you need anything, I’m just down the hall. Don’t be afraid to ask.” She waits for him to nod back. “Well… goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Slowly, she walks down the hallway to her own room and strips off the wet clothes, slipping into her warmest pajamas. Her gaze drifts back to the hallway, and she chews her lip, thinking. After a moment, she tiptoes out of her room and to the closed door. She listens carefully. No sound. Holding her breath, she twists the knob and opens the door, inch by inch, leaning forward to peer through the crack.

There is Vision, curled in a fetal position, damp white-blond hair the only thing visible above the pile of blankets. Wanda steps into the room, feet automatically shifting to avoid making the ancient boards creak. She pauses, listening to his breathing. He’s asleep. With a touch lighter than any she’s ever used before, she reaches out and lays a hand on his forehead.

She barely manages to keep her relieved sigh from escaping. His temperature is normal, as near as she can tell. Just in case, she’ll check again in an hour. Taking someone to the hospital because of hypothermia would bring plenty of unwanted attention their way, but like every other risky or painful thing she’s done tonight, it would be worth it. They’ll do whatever they have to. _She’ll_ do whatever she has too.

Wanda turns in the doorway and watches as the lanky, broad-shouldered boy settles deeper under the blankets, the peaceful look on his face stripping years of hardship and pain off the clock. And right now, despite his height, he looks young and vulnerable and so very small.

Her chest tightens and she fixes her jaw. This is it. This is where everything changes. She won’t let him down.

_Never again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to these songs on loop while writing most of this chapter, and I think they're a fitting soundtrack.  
> [Between the Raindrops by Lifehouse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oxMd-aX-Cw)  
> [Sad Eyes by James Arthur](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPGeaerbNsU)


End file.
